I feel terrible, I am so, so sorry. The first week of school has been pretty hectic and everyone is always talking in the dorms. So, I don't have anything for Knowing Sherlock Holmes I mean, I do, but I hate it. So I'm restarting that chapter. This is just a saved chapter for Elysium that I had hanging around, I was going to continue it a little longer before I posted it but then I didn't have internet and everything is saved on google docs and it just never happened.
BUT I HAVE INTERNET NOW, SO WORRY NOT.
The confusion that is fogging John's brain is sinking him, swirling behind his eyes and it feels like it is probing through his mind. But as he stands on the curb, chest heaving, calves aching, he pushes it down yet again. He will go back to the flat (empty, oh god, the flat will be empty) he will make himself a cup of tea and he will ring Mycroft again.
And even though he can feel tremors shifting, shaking through his bad leg, rolling through his stomach, he nods decisively. Takes a long breath.
He then steps out on the curb and his legs nearly collapse from under him all over again as he repeatedly fails to hail a taxi. Because Sherlock can just sweep out and wave and one draws up.
The confusion is back, pulling at the edges and this time it is painful (he doesn't understand) and he clutches one hand to his temple against the pounding throb that distorts the murmur of London's constant noise. But then the taxi pulls up and he stumbles in and manages to form his lips to the words, "221 Baker Street." and the taxi is pulling away, and the light of cool-grey city slurs past, blurring (and there is no one beside him) and John nearly moans out loud with the smashing, pounding pain. But Sherlock just died, just disappeared in front of him, and he'll call Mycroft as soon as he sits down, as soon as he shuts his (their, his) door and his leg stops jerking and trembling and maybe then he can think (he doesn't understand).
He just needs to think.
John thrusts a few bills at the driver, not pausing to count because he doesn't have time to count (except he has nowhere to be, all the time in the world, because Sherlock is gone).
He doesn't care if that is the cabbie yelling after him or the screech inside his own mind. John tells himself that he is overreacting (to the death of his friend? who could overreact to that?) because he must have been seeing things, has to have been (when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth) because… because. People, even the incredibly Sherlock Holmes don't just die and then disappear into a flash of blue light (when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth). And he has trouble getting the key into the lock, because the tremors in his leg are wracking his whole body, every vibration echoing in his skull, smashing from the inside. Burning and tearing and decimating and when John reaches the landing, after trekking upstairs, one hand pressed against the throbbing of his skull, he collapses against the wall and cries out from the ravaging pain.
Black blurs at the edges of his swirling vision (and he doesn't understand) but he leans hard against the wall and pushes to his feet, and he is standing facing the door to his (their, his) flat, key raised, level with the lock and his joints are frozen, moulds for metal that has cooled to ice and hardened inside, because even though there is bile coating the inside of his throat and his mind is burning up from the inside, tearing itself apart, he might be wrong. He might open the door and in amid the chaos and the rumpled couch cushions, Sherlock might be stretched out, one long arm hanging pale off the armrest. And he will ask for tea- demand tea and John will grumble lightly and go to put the kettle on.
John takes one long breath, and on the exhale, compartmentalizes the pain. Breath in, breath out, breath in, breath out. Box in the pain, shove it to the back of the mind, and focus.
John repeats Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock with every dulling thump against his skull, until it becomes a mantra. He fits the key in the lock, and with a smooth twist of his wrist opens the door.
The furniture is all exactly the same. That is the only similarity between before the case and afterwards. It isn't exactly tidy, per se, books are piled on the table, and there is a mug of tea beside them, but the books are in bright colors with names typed across the cover in looping, flowery script. And John has never seen that mug before. He stands completely still, breath halted in his throat, and he can do nothing but stare at the scene before him. With his sliver of view to the kitchen, John can see that there are no half finished experiments strewn across the surfaces, and across the room, on the fireplace, rests pictures of people, smiling and frozen in place with names that John cannot give them because he has never met any of them before.
John stands in this room, so foreign and so familiar (and it is empty, so empty, but not for the right reasons and somehow that makes it even worse) and suddenly he can't take it anymore. The bile that has slicked his throat, and seared his stomach since Sherlock strode into the blue (only half an hour ago, was it really just half an hour ago? it feels like forever) rises, and he isn't thinking clearly enough to make it to the bathroom, instead he yanks open the window and leans out far over the street and with the heave of his stomach, it burns his mouth, slick and acidic.
And then it is all he can do to just dangle out the window, sucking in air that scalds and freezes his lungs, and watch as people go about their lives. The pounding in his head has lessened now, and he gently relaxes his hold against the sill, the steady thump of Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock still present in his mind. For one heart stopping moment John nearly forgets what the word means (Sherlock, who is Sherlock?) but then he latches on and pulls, keeping it solid. (Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes, my best friend). He is about to retreat into the flat again, almost ready to face the odd, terrifying notness of their apartment (and when will he ever be ready, he doesn't understand), when he sees a familiar black car pull up on the curb and he nearly trips over his own feet in his race down the stairs.
He yanks open the door and collapses on the smooth leather of the expensive upholstered seats.
John is doing quite well fighting the blue light. Soldier on, darling.
So yes, more is on the way. I'm also restarting the next chapter for Knowing Sherlock Holmes, though I'm liking this more.
COOKIES FOR ALL, AS AN APOLOGY!